When John Comes Home
by Thorin the Smokinsheild
Summary: Fluffy collection of drabbles about the happenings at baker street. I do take requests!
1. Pillow

Title: Pillow

Summary: John gets home to find Sherlock asleep for once, and they enjoy a moment on the couch.

Disclaimer: I do not have ownership over Sherlock or Sherlock Holmes, blah blah blah *dies inside*

John came home late, burdened with bags of groceries. He was tired and mad, because the bloody self check-out was mal-functioning. He put the handle of his shopping bag in his mouth and fished around in his pockets for his key. Once he finally got himself in, he immediately paused. It was quiet. Way too quiet. He set the bags of groceries down on the counter amid the jars, Petrie dishes, and plates full of foul, unnamable things, and walked toward the living room, cautious. When the flat was silent, he never knew what to expect. The sight he was met with, however, warmed his heart.

Sherlock, 'the man who never sleeps', was curled up on the end of the sofa like a cat, his face half buried into a pillow, his blue robe curled around him. John smiled. He cherished the few times when Sherlock actually slept. It showed that he _was_ human, that he _did _have the same basic needs and emotions, even in small doses, as anybody else.

Sherlock quivered a little and curled a little tighter in on himself. John grabbed a small blanket from the top of a chair and padded over to Sherlock, tucking the blanket securely around him. As he was pushing the edge of the blanket behind Sherlock's back, he suddenly twisted, effectively trapping John's arm. Then he reached out and grabbed John's middle and pulled him towards himself, making John lose his footing and be forced to fall on the couch beside his flat mate. Sherlock wrapped his arm around his waist and pulled him close, and John looked around desperately for escape.

Suddenly, a deep baritone voice rumbled out from the chest behind him.

"Stop fretting John, you were a much more comfortable pillow before you got all tense."

John rolled his eyes and shook his head, still smiling fondly. "I'm not a pillow, Sherlock."

Sherlock snorted and snuggled himself closer to him. "Yeah, just as much as Mrs. Hudson isn't our housekeeper."

John chuckled and relaxed, settling quite comfortably into Sherlock's chest. They were a perfect fit. Sherlock nestled his nose into John's neck, and soon enough, his breathing evened out and the rises and falls of his breath slowed.

John closed his eyes, matching his breath with Sherlock's.

The groceries sat on the counter among the experiments, completely forgotten.


	2. Shakespeare

**Hey guys! So I was going to make 'Pillow' just a one-shot, but then I got inspired when my GT English class was reading a Midsummer Nights Dream (I got to play Puck :D even though I'm a girl. I always thought if mischief were personified, it would be a girl.) so I just whipped this up and decided to add it on. I'm going to make this a collection of drabbles, and I am totally open for ideas and requests * wink wink* so enjoy! And don't judge me by my bad old English, I know it probably sucks. Enough of my rambles.**

**If you want a disclaimer go to Chapter 1. I'm too lazy to put them in every chapter. And being reminded that I don't own Sherlock is depressing.**

Shakespeare

Some of the most exciting, scary, and irritating of times in John Watson's life took place not on investigations, deducing criminals, or even chases, but when Sherlock got bored. John never knew what to expect.

Sherlock had a series of moods on times like these-when there were no cases and the experiments had gone cold.

Some of the time he was cranky, playing screeching terrible notes on his violin, or complaining about telly- which always bored him.

Sometimes he was very calm-just lying on his couch, eyes closed, hands steepled under his chin, thinking about things unfathomable to John.

Sometimes he was annoying; telling John to make him tea, come cuddle with him, give him a puzzle, or worse- just _watching_ him.

But some of the time- and this is very uncommon- Sherlock was _hyper_. Sometimes he would find something, and on some rare, _very rare _occasions, it would interest him. Then he would be _obsessed_ with this thing until he got bored of it, something else caught his attention, or the next case came up.

Today was one of those days.

When John came home from lunch with a friend from the hospital, what he found made his hands go slack, sending his mug of tea crashing to the floor.

Sherlock was in the living room, the radio was blaring opera, and he was reading very loudly out of a Shakespeare book. The strangest part was that he had a plastic set a fairy wings strapped to his back, and he kept changing his voice like he was rehearsing for play.

When he heard John's mug shatter, he whipped around o face Joh. His eyes lit up dangerously, and John saw what he was reading.

"A Midsummer Nights Dream, Sherlock? What the hell brought this on?"

Sherlock, ignoring him, replied in a ridiculously modified voice: "oh John! They say that 'absence maketh the heart grow fonder', but I feel a pain when you leave- the world becomes a place devoid of color and light. Oh, how my heart doth ache!"

John rolled his eyes and replied in a flat voice, "Thine english doth suck."

Again, he was ignored. "John soldier brave, partner mine, thine presence doth light my world like a sun much brighter and..._hotter_ (this was punctuated with an eyebrow wiggle) then that which shineth overhead."

John went to turn the opera off with a sigh. "Wow, you were _that_ bored."

Sherlock slapped John's hand away from the off button and pulled him to the center of the room, thrusting a copy of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream into his hands, and shoving a fairy wing set over his head. "Come John, frolic with me in bounds of merriment- we have all the day before us, and no case nor experiment doth hinder me from play."

John stared at him in incredulity. "You're kidding right? There's no way." he scoffed as he shoved the book back at his deranged flatmate.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Time bring out the big guns. He leaned in close to John, lips barely brushing his ear as he brought his voice an octave lower. "If thy chooseth to humor my whims, the rewards should be high in thine favor."

As Sherlock murmured in his ear, John's face got redder and redder.

Sherlock pulled back, smirking. "There be my sun"

John cleared his throat and pulled the book out of Sherlock's hands, flipping to the page he was on. "You draw me, you hardhearted adamant! But yet you draw not iron, for my heart is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw, and I shall have no power to follow you." John recited and Sherlock grimaced.

"I liketh not this part. Helena doth love Demetrius and be scorned. This shalt not do here because-" and to emphasize his point, he put an arm around John's waist and buried his nose and John's hair. "My love for you is so much stronger than Demetrius' could ever be for Helen- drugged or not." John rolled his eyes, but leaned into Sherlock's embrace all the same.

Later, when Mrs. Hudson opened the door softly to check on them, she saw Sherlock and John, decked out in fairy wings, jumping around and making absurd love declarations in old English. She chuckled, shaking her head, and closed the door quietly.

"My boys..." She said fondly, and went down again to make them some tea.

Not that she was their housekeeper, of course.

**I hope I didn't just lose a bunch of readers with my butchering of Shakespearean speech. So review! And give me requests please! They'd be well appreciated!**

**Ta! (I'll try to update as fast as I can crank 'em out)**


	3. Hair part John

**Hi Guys! Sorry I didn't update yesterday, I haven't been home and and I just now convinvced my grandparents to let me grab my crappy computer so I could update…so I haven't mentioned that updates would be inconsistent. I should mention it. Updates will be inconsistent depending on how long it takes to get inspired (which is why y'all should PLEASE REVIEW! Reviews=faster updates.), and writing and getting it from paper to computer takes about an hour, so yeah. It has been mentioned. **

**Disclaimer: if I owned this, John would never have said "I'm not his date".**

Hair (part John)

Sherlock and John were lying in bed after a particularly hard case, and it was getting to the point where the late hours of the night had long since slipped into the wee hours of the morning, and the hours were becoming not quite so 'wee' anymore.

John had fallen asleep a long time ago. His face was half pressed against a pillow, his nose poking out and his mouth wide open. His hair was messy, sticking up in all different directions.

Sherlock was wide awake, of course. He was curled up by John's side, one hand under his pillow, the other one gently stroking John's hair. He could not seem to stop.

The curtains were open, letting in the light of the moon. It seemed to illuminate his army doctor. He might not have been the most peaceful of sleepers; he was snoring softly and occasionally his fingers would twitch, but Sherlock thought the sight before him was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

And he could not stop touching his hair. He ran his fingers though it, spiked it up, smoothed it down, and played with various bits and pieces.

There was something about John that Sherlock deemed beautiful. Not cute or adorable, as the rest of the world labeled him, but extraordinarily gorgeous. John himself thought that he looked very average and mundane. Boring. No matter how many times Sherlock told him otherwise.

To Sherlock, John was anything but boring. He fit into who his features and who he was perfectly, and that itself made him beautiful in Sherlock's eyes.

He threaded his fingers through John's hair and tugged lightly, trying not to wake him up.

John's eyes fluttered open, revealing blue irises, deep as the sea, that made Sherlock's heart flutter.

"Sherlock," he slurred sleepily. "What'chu doin'?

Sherlock smiled, leaned up, and kissed John's forehead softly. "Nothing, love. Go back to sleep."

John scooted closer to Sherlock, pressing his face into his chest and locking his arms around his middle. He grinned softly as Sherlock smoothed his hair down-again. "Stop it."

Sherlock didn't even skip a beat with his drawling "No."

John just chuckled and murmured a simple 'Okay'.

He fell asleep like that soon after, still hugging Sherlock close. And Sherlock kept playing with his hair, because his doctor was beautiful.

**Okay I did not intend for it to turn out like this. Eh, I blame Gatiss. The next one is going to be like this one, with like a tie in with 'Tea'. Again, all Gatiss' fault. **

**Au revoir, little biscuits, until next time! (which should be in about an hour. Yes, I should be working on homework, but that's just so dull.) I'm expecting reviews from all my readers! (yes, Chris, this means you too.)**


	4. Hair part Sherlock

'**Ellow 'ellow 'ellow, for the second time today, I believe! This one is kind of a cross between the 'hair' theme and a 'tea' theme. Hope y'all don't mind. I might be able whip something else up tomorrow, maybe. I've got some ideas. But I need a lot more, so y'all review, k? fanks.**

**Disclaimer: me no owney. Me no likey this. :( **

Hair (part Sherlock)

John adored Sherlock's hair. One thing he loved to do was run his fingers through the black curls on his detective's head. To rearrange, to curl his fingers around, to tug on; playing with Sherlock's hair was one of his favorite things.

This is why, right now, John felt deliriously happy on the couch, watching crap telly, with Sherlock laying beside him with his head in John's lap. John was holding a cup of steaming tea in one hand, while the other was tangling itself lightly in Sherlock's curls. John swore he could hear Sherlock purring. Really: the detective was making a low humming, rumbling sound that reverberated through his chest and into John's body. He was so chuffed; he almost didn't hear Sherlock's next words.

"John, give me your tea."

John looked down in surprise. "What? Why?"

Sherlock didn't even open his eyes. "Because I'm thirsty, and I don't want you to get me some because I am too comfortable here, so the obvious choice would be for you to give me yours."

John smirked and quirked his eyebrows as he brought his mug to his lips, "No." and took a large swig.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "_Really_? Now that _is_ elementary, John."

Then, much to John's surprise, Sherlock grabbed John's face and pulled him down to him, kissing him soundly.

John was so far gone, he didn't even realize Sherlock slipping his mug from his hand.

When they pulled away, Sherlock took a big drink and smirked up with bright eyes at John, who was glaring at him.

John sighed and rolled his eyes. He shook his head, good naturedly pulled his mug back, and ruffled his partner's hair.

Then he did it again. He really did love doing that.

**I need a beta. :( Too many grammar mistakes…but I'll ignore this thought and edit the best I can (yes, Rebotee, I'm talking to you.) (I'm still refusing to go to my mother, after last time…*shudder*).**

**Ah love. :3 I did like this one the best out of the two. Which one was y'alls' favorite? Lemme know! And leave prompts while you're at it! **


	5. Tickle

**HI people! So my Mom found out I ship Johnlock…she saw chapter 3…awkward…So I'm just saying I WILL GO DOWN WITH SHIP AND I WILL ONLY STOP WHEN THE IDEAS STOP FLOWING, which will be never, as long as I have a brain and good readers who review with prompts ;D speaking of, this chapter is dedicated to SerpentWinged, thank you so much, and at at your request: A tickle fest!**

**Disclaimer:*Sigh* I don't own Sherlock… *slumps into deep pool of depression***

Tickle

Sherlock was bored. He had no cases, and any experiment he was working on turned out to be a dead end.

He was currently lying face-down on his couch-sulking. John, who had given up on being in his presence about an hour ago, had cleared a spot in the kitchen and was making some Italian dish he knew he would be the only one eating.

Sherlock heaved A great sigh. What to do...then an idea popped into his head. An incredible, hilarious, dangerous idea.

There were no living things in the flat to experiment on, except Mrs. Hudson, who he respected too much to do anything of the kind to, and John. The last time he had tried to experiment on John, the results had not been pretty, but that time he had been in real danger of becoming ill (which he did, but that is a story for another time). This time, Sherlock's idea was completely harmless, and the only thing he wished to get out of it was entertainment.

"John!" Sherlock called, stealthily getting up from the couch.

"What?" John replied, not looking up from the recipe book he was pouring over.

"Come here, I want to show you this thing I've created!" By now Sherlock had padded-quieter than a mouse- over to the wall behind the kitchen door where John would not immediately see him when he walked out. He heard John put down his cookbook as he muttered to himself, "Dear God, what have you done now?"

Sherlock listened as John stepped away from the counter, around the island, past the fridge, and he saw his partner walk right past him without noticing. He paused.

"...Sherlock?"

One...more...step...

John moved, and Sherlock pounced.

He pinned him to the ground, ignoring his surprised yell. The man was struggling, but eventually Sherlock managed to pin his wrists together above his head and straddle his waist. He grinned down in triumph at his captive, who was still struggling beneath him.

"What the bloody hell are you playing at, Sherlock?"

Said detective's grin only got brighter, and John's brow creased with concern for his own well-being.

"Just a little experiment."

And with that, he went in for the kill.

Still being sure to keep his doctor's wrists secure over his head, he took one hand, placed it on John's stomach, and began to wiggle his fingers and scratch.

John positively howled with laughter.

He laughed hysterically, until tears of mirth were streaming down his cheeks. He wriggles and struggled and squirmed, desperately trying to free himself from the detective (whose grip was remarkably strong), and he begged and pleaded until his voice was hoarse.

Finally Sherlock ceased and released him, much to John's relief. He rolled onto his side, gasping for air.

"Damn you, and your damn experiments!" He choked out. "What did that accomplish, anyway?"

Sherlock sat back on his heels and rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. "Nothing much." Then he smiled a genuine, happy grin. "Now I know you are ticklish."

**So there you go! Hope you liked it! Y'all should let me know! Reviews, in my opinion, are like food to us writers.**

** Anyway, I'm sick, so I'm staying home. I may be able to get out at least 3 today! I'll try my best. Later!**


	6. Pillow Fight

**Oh gosh...hi guys...IM SO SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING AGAIN YESTERDAY! I just got caught up in watching Dr. Who and Sherlock! I lost track of time and before you know it was like 10 o'clock! To make up for it, I got like three lovely chapters here for you, hope you enjoy them.**

Pillow fight

John wasn't tired when he went to bed that night. He pretended to be, but he wasn't. He had been planning up to this for a week, ever since Sherlock attacked and tickled him.

He trumped up the stairs in mock exhaustion, (they had just wrapped up the latest case, so he had an excuse) and walked into their bedroom, dragging his feet ever so slightly.

He had been following his flat mate's behavior to get him off guard, which was not an easy thing to do. He had found that after a case, he was usually restless, but he enjoyed the calm after a case and would usually go to bed, even though he never slept. John went through his nighttime routine like and like he did every night, when they weren't dashing about across London, and climbed into bed. But then carefully, oh, so carefully, he sat up and selected a pillow. He then placed his feet on the floor and eased his weight onto them, careful not to make any noise.

Then he waited. He waited it until he heard Sherlock's footsteps following his up the stairs to bed before padding silently behind the closed door.

Sherlock twisted the knob – John hefted the pillow high over his head – and Sherlock pushed the door open. John swung the pillow up and brought it down on the detectives head.

Sherlock looked at him in bewilderment as John whacked him, and then he began to laugh, backing toward the bed as John hit him again with a cry of "Revenge!"

Sherlock giggled and grab his own pillow in retaliation. "En Guard!" Then he hit John in the side. He got the pillow in his face for that.

They yelled and giggled and whacked each other with pillows for what seemed like hours, until both of them and everything in the room was covered in feathers.

John's cheeks hurt from grinning and his sides burned from laughing, but he didn't care as he gave one last laugh and halfheartedly hit Sherlock one last time.

"Oh," Sherlock gasped as he collapsed dramatically on the bed. "I surrender!"

John fell face first beside him and poke him in the shoulder. "That'll teach you to ambushing a man and tickle him to death!"

Sherlock grinned. "The opportunity was too great to pass up, love. Admit it, it was fun!"

John growled and rolled over, hugging Sherlock's neck and resting his chin in his collarbone "not in a million years!"

Sherlock chuckled and put an arm around John's waist, picking a feather out of his hair. He sighed.

"John, you do realize we'll have to pick up the feathers at some point, right?"

John shushed him. "Why do today what can be put off to tomorrow?"

Sherlock Green and dropped the feather, just buried his nose in John's hair and inhaled deeply.

"That's the spirit." He murmured before allowing himself to drift off to sleep, just this once of course.

After Sherlock's breathing slowed, John lifted his head and smiled at his sleeping partner, kissing his temple softly before getting up to clean the feathers.

**I do like this one. It makes me happy. It's kind of a sequel to Tickle. Yes, it's Tickle's sequel. Next up is it Ill: in which Sherlock poisons John...**


	7. Ill Part John

**Hey again! This is going to be like a two-part thing again like Hair, only with illness. Yeah. Well I won't give too much away ;-). All I'm saying is that it is dedicated to Awesome-Sauce-Eater, eternal gratitude, you inspired these.**

Ill (part John)

John was furious. He knew it was Sherlock's fault he was currently violently throwing up into a public toilet, and that he was probably going to spend the next 24 hours stationed in the bathroom.

And as soon as John was able to make it five feet from said bathroom, he was going to _kill _Sherlock.

Not only had he poisoned _his_ soup, but he had ruined a perfectly good date.

He heard the sound of the door opening, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock's long, dark figure standing by the doorway.

John had stopped retching by now, so he turned around and sat against the wall, and just glared daggers at his flat mate, it was starting to actually look guilty.

The second round came on John's stomach, so he rolled over to face the toilet and heaved.

He didn't notice Sherlock had come behind him until he felt Sherlock's arm wrap around his back, and the other hold his forehead. John didn't have the strength or willpower to push him away.

When he finished, Sherlock helped him to his feet and let him to the sink to wash off.

John wearily opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, who had positioned himself next to John's feet, his knees pulled up to his chest and looking rather like a puppy.

"I hope," he rasped. "That whatever you got out of that was worth something, because if that was for nothing, I am going to kill you."

Sherlock just gave him an apologetic smile as he leaned over and stroke John's hair.

**Well there you have it! Let me know what you think! Review! Next up: Ill, part Sherlock.**

**Tah!**


	8. Ill part Sherlock

**'Eyy! This is Sherlock's part of 'Ill' and I hope it's better than the last one, which was crappy. :(**

**Disclaimer:Moffat and Godtiss...**

Ill (Part Sherlock)

As much as Sherlock would hate to admit it, his immune system was crap.

The only reason Sherlock wasn't sick all the time was that he took extreme precautions. He always wear gloves, he never ate, and he never touched any door handles with his hands. Hence the gloves. This is why John was extremely surprised to come home from work and find Sherlock on the couch surrounded by boxes of tissues, puking his lungs out into a trash bin.

John dropped his bag and rush to Sherlock's side. Sherlock was leaning over so far over; it looked like he was about to fall off the couch, save for a trembling arm on the coffee table.

John braced his partner by putting an arm across his chest and leaning against him. Sherlock gripped John's arm and John move the other hand cradle the back of his head. He waited until Sherlock and finished retching and leaned back against the couch with a shuddering breath before speaking.

"What happened to you?" he spoke gently, with concern in his voice. Sherlock opened his eyes barely and gave an incredulous look.

"Observe, John, I am ill. Obviously."

John rolled his eyes and decided not to comment. He just got his feet and moved into the kitchen without a word. (And pretended not to see his flat mate's eyes following him from the room)

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, and John grinned to himself and opened the can of chicken – noodle soup he'd bought last week on a whim, it seems that that was a good decision.

"I'm making you some soup, Sherlock, and you will eat it all." he said, poking his head to the door and waving his spoon at the detective like a weapon.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed. "But John," he whined, "I'm not hungry!"

John's sighed and rolled into doctor mode as the soup heated up in the microwave.

"When you throw up, you lose fluids and water your body needs. If you don't renew those fluids, you will get dehydrated, and I don't feel like going back to the hospital today to give you an IV trip. Bad day at work."

He pulled out the steaming mug of soup and stirred it a bit as he walked back to the couch where his detective was still sulking.

He put the soup down on the coffee table and went around next to the couch beside Sherlock's head and tapped his shoulder. "Budge over, you."

Sherlock leaned forward grumbling, and John climbed into the couch behind him so Sherlock could lean back and rest his head on his chest.

John pointed at the soup. "Now eat."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed again, but grabbed the soup anyway. John grinned triumphantly and patented Sherlock's head playfully.

"There we go, good detective."

Sherlock turned halfway round and gave John a murderous look, and John laughed. "I'm kidding, Sherlock." and he grabbed the remote, still chuckling. "Now I want to watch a film. What –"

"Doctor Who."

John smiled and clicked the button.

**I like this one best out of the two. Which one was yours? Let me know and review like good little readers! Bye!**


	9. Jumper

**Hi! Okay sorry for not updating yesterday, that was my fault, I was feeling lazy. But here! I have a peace offering! Two long-ish ones for you! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: If I owned this instead of Moffat and Gatiss (the evil tossers), there would be much sweet jumper fluff.**

Jumper

It was a cold, crisp winter morning. The kind where it just sneaks up and under doors before you had time to turn on the heat.

This was fine with John; he was rather chuffed really, since he was curled up on the couch with a blanket and his favorite oatmeal jumper. He was warm and cozy.

Sherlock on the other hand, had only his thin purple shirt and trousers.

This is why, when Sherlock saw John, looking all comfortable and warm, he didn't even think as he crawled up beside his partner and forced himself into his jumper beside him.

"She – Sherlock, what in the bloody hell are you doing?"

Sherlock wiggled in further, ignoring his cries of protest. "Budge over! I'm cold."

John continued his futile attempts of shoving Sherlock out of his jumper. "But you're going to tear it!"

Sherlock ignored him, just popped his head through the hole at the top and gave John a peck on the nose. "Hi."

John glared at him for a bit, but decided to give up when Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and laid his head on his chest, still shivering slightly. He chuckled. "You know, you could have just wrapped up in your robe."

Sherlock shrugged. "You're warmer, and my robe got burned in an experiment last week."

John rolled his eyes. "Of course. I knew that would end up happening sooner or later."

The two of them stayed there like that for a while, just basking in each other's warmth. John was so comfortable. Sherlock was making that humming sound again. He was just starting to drift off when the door banged open.

John jerked in surprise when D.I Lestrade walked in, Sherlock just groaned. "Sorry boys, just got a case, need your he–"

"No." Sherlock said irritably well before Lestrade finished.

"But-"

"NO!"

"Triple murder!"

At this, Sherlock paused. "Damn it, fine. Count us right behind you. "

John sighed resignedly as they push themselves off the couch – with disastrous results.

Sherlock was still in John's jumper with him, so they were basically all tangled up. They tottered on the spot for a moment, trying to regain balance, when John's foot caught Sherlock's, and they toppled backwards. Sherlock landed on top of John: knocking the breath out of him.

Sherlock burst into laughter, and Johnson followed as they tried to untangle themselves.

Eventually Sherlock freed himself and John was left to examine the damage.

"Bollocks, Sherlock, you ruined my favorite jumper!"

Sherlock gave it the once over and snorted. "Don't be daft, John, it's perfectly fine."

John gave him an incredulous look. "I'll never be able to wear it again!"

Then Sherlock's face twisted into a wry grin. "Without me, maybe."And with that, he was out the door. John stared after him in shock, then smiled and shook his head, muttering "bloody wanker" as he went.

**There you go I hope you like it! Next up: Christmas and mistletoe loveliness! *wink wink***


	10. Christmas

**Hi! Second one up for today, oh I am excited for this one. Y'all review and tell me what you think K? Fanks guys! (Seriously, reviews make my entire week. Please? With Cumberbatch on top?)**

**Disclaimer: do I really need to say it? Must I? This chapter would so be happening if I owned this but sadly *sob* I do not.**

Christmas

John was very fond of Christmas. Sherlock was not. This was one of the biggest controversies. Whenever John brought out the Christmas decorations, Sherlock would scoff.

It had been like this for several years, but this time, John assured himself, would be different. _This time_.

John had made sure that Sherlock was absolutely exhausted when he carried out his plan. Sherlock only allowed himself to sleep about twice every other case, so, since the last two cases since he last slept each took about a week, Sherlock was nearly in hysterics by the time John finally forced him to go to bed.

John waited. He waited until he heard Sherlock collapsed into bed– then he flew into action.

Jovially, he put on some Christmas music and donned his favorite Father Christmas hat, then he went into the closet in the front hall downstairs and brought up all the boxes – there were at least five. And that was how he spent his afternoon. He hung strings of popcorn and cranberries, and he cleared a spot for a centerpiece wreath on the kitchen table among the laboratory equipment. He placed decorative candles in all the windows, and he even placed a plastic tree in the corner.

He was just putting up the last bit of décor – a bushel of mistletoe above the kitchen door – when Sherlock stumbled down the stairs with the yawn.

"John... What are you doing?"

John looked down from his chair (he was vertically challenged, so he needed it for the mistletoe) with bright eyes. "I," he said with confidence, "am decorating for Christmas."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You have never expressed that you were fond of the holiday…"

John stepped off the chair and waved it at Sherlock before returning it to its place at the table. "You have never given me the chance to, you berate it so much."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes indignantly. "I don't berate it; I just don't think it necessary to indulge in it! Really John, the holiday has no point anymore. "

John crossed his arms and planted his feet firmly. "I think its fun, and I enjoyed very much!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a step towards John. "Oh please. It's so commercialized, it's the lost any meaning it once had. "

John's stood his ground. "That's not true. It's only lost meaning if you stop believing in it." Sherlock stepped forward again, but John could see he was faltering.

"Pointless."

"Fun."

"A hassle."

"Okay, now you're just being spiteful."

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms, not looking at John, who rolled his eyes and chuckled.

Suddenly, he noticed something. He looked up at Sherlock, and he swore he could see John's dark blue eyes sparkling. "This is my favorite carol."

Sherlock's resolve broke, and he smiled. "I know."

He placed a hand on John's hip and slipped the other inches hands. "Do you dance?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

John raised an eyebrow and grinned, but didn't question him. "No."

Sherlock just smirked at him. "Just sway, John."

The two swayed on the spot in time to the music, slowly moving backwards. Eventually they stopped, and John looked up, and his grin grew wider.

"Mistletoe." He murmured, and Sherlock glanced up before grinning mischievously at his partner.

"I do believe there is some sort of tradition that follows this particular situ-"John silenced his detective mid–sentence by pressing his lips to his in a sweet kiss.

Sherlock brought his hand up to cup John's face, running his thumb gently over his job. John tangled a hand in Sherlock's hair, keeping him close.

Sherlock chuckled into John's mouth and separated, but only just, so that their noses were so touching.

"I do believe I rather like this particular tradition."

John smirked. "I told you so."

**So which one is your favorite? Do you have any prompts you want to see? Please review and let me know!**


	11. Cat

**Hi! Okay so I figured instead of just sort of not updating for a day and updating twice the next day and apologizing and everything, I would just sort of… Update once or twice every other day. it would be a lot easier. So I hope you forgive me for just making that official. I still feel uber guilty about it. Anywho, this chapter right here is dedicated to kd1190 , Since she requested it. See, you see what happens when you give me prompts? Yeah. You should review me prompts. It would be very appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: Moffat and Gatiss make their tea with my tears...**

Cat

Sherlock, John finally decided, looks like a cat. John had compared Sherlock to several animals before, an otter, a puppy, a snake, etc. But the one metaphor he found himself returning to the most was the cat.

If Sherlock was in fact a cat, John was sure he'd be black, like his hair, with minty green eyes, in resemblance to his own.

John thought the resemblance was obvious. It came out and everything he did. He looked tattoo – like when he was examining a body, when he would move lithely about the body and in odd directions to get a good luck.

He looked like a cat when he was curled up in his arm chair watching crap telly, John could almost see his years laid-back.

He resemble the cat when they were on stake-outs; his eyes were bright and John could tell, if he had a tail, it would be twitching.

John saw it sometimes, when he was stroking Sherlocks hair, he would nuzzle his face into John's hand, insisting for more, making low humming sounds that John swore was him 'purring'.

John loved it when Sherlock purred. Sometimes he would do it unintentionally, while working on an experiment or in the shower, and sometimes he did it just because he knew John loved it.

Which he did, because Sherlock was John's cat.

**Sorry it's so short, but that's as long as I really thought it needed to be, you know? And I just really want to thank everybody who's added me to their alerts, favorites, been reviewing and stayed with me for this long. thank you, I really can't tell you how much I appreciate it.**


	12. Paper work or rather not

**Hey you guys. So I just got back from a pre UIL competition, and it sucked. We all had to wear tuxes. Even the girls. Why couldn't they just make us wear dresses, I don't know. But it still sucks. And tomorrow I have a track meet so I probably won't be able to update until Wednesday which I have something else going on...maybe...I don't even know. and on Thursday I have a play and something is happening Friday but Freaking People, I don't even know. So i will try to update when I can, but it probably won't be until the weekend, and I'm so sorry, this is just a super busy week. But I'll be writing a lot in class because I have ideas and I love my readers. oh and by the way, I'm sorry to announce that there will be some post Reichenbach depression in this. because I feel Reichenbach depression. Im envisioning Sherlock breaking down in front of a rainy window listening to Bread's 'everything I own...ahem, sorry. Oh and this story is now rated T because I'm paranoid.**

**Disclaimer: Moffat, Gatiss, if you are reading this (which you aren't, I'm just wishful thinking); WHY YOU NO SLASH THEM UP?**

Paperwork (or rather...not)

Sherlock hated being a witness. Well, he didn't hate it, he actually loved it, but what he hated about being a witness was the paperwork. Can you had a purpose, but it was tedious, and he took a precious time it could be used investigating.

Right now though, there was nothing he could do about it. D. I Lestrade had locked him and John in an interrogation room and claimed he would not let them out until they both finished their paperwork, but from the lack of noise outside the door, Lestrade had forgotten and clocked out 15 minutes ago.

John was still working. He was scribbling details on his paper with vigor, his nose almost touching his work.

Sherlock loved watching John work: whether it was typings blog are working at St. Barts (sometimes Sherlock would go spy on him when he was caseless), watching John in action was definitely a hobby of Sherlock's.

Since Sherlock was finished with his statement and thus had /nothing/ to do, he contended himself with studying his partner.

He looked restless, his knees were bouncing up-and-down and occasionally he would pause and bounce his pencil's eraser on the bottom lip. Sherlock's eyes rested on his mouth long after the pencil left it.

'oh, John's mouth', he thought, 'should have epic poems written about it.'

Sherlock realized the motion had stopped. He looked up at John's eyes to find them locked in his own in an amused to grin, his eyebrow raised.

Sherlock looked down at his paper – which he had finished long ago – and back at John. He had put his pencil down and leaned back in his chair, and he was still staring at Sherlock with this bemused look.

"What?"

John chuckled and shook his head. "Epic poems, eh?"

Sherlock immediately flushed deep red. "Damn, that was out loud…" He said, but John just laughed.

"Are you volunteering?"

Sherlock snorted. "Come John, you know I'm pants at poetry." He casually stood up and walked around the table and behind John, who had leaned his chair on it's back legs, across his ankles, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

He grabbed the back of John's chair and pulled it back towards himself, and down, making him the only thing keeping John from hitting the floor. He leaned forward and murmured in John's ear, pitching his voice an octave lower in a way he knew drove John crazy.

"So I'll just have to be content with kissing the hell out of it."

John shivered and gulped, but managed to keep his self-control. "Sherlock, stop it. We are in an interrogation room. You never know who's going to be behind there." He said, gesturing to the tinted window covering the opposite wall from them.

Sherlock froze as the intercom crackled, and Anderson's voice flooded the room.

"John has a point, freak." Then, to both of their horrors, he cackled "Ooh, this is so going on the Internet.".

The crackling voice stopped, and Sherlock dropped his head onto John shoulder and groaned as John massaged his temples. "Well, damn. "

**This thing is stupid. -.- now is where I would shamelessly beg for reviews, but I am way too tired. Excuse me while I Kuhgjhhbyugj,hjvkuvguvjfhvthyfhbvjgv**


	13. Everything

**Hey guys! I feel so guilty about not updating sooner, but you read my note last chapter. So today I feel ultra guilty for giving you and angst fic. Yes this one is very sad, wel,l I think it's sad. It's also a song fic, best experienced while listening to Bread's 'everything I own. But worry not, my dear readers, for next chapter (which shall come very soon) shall be a very fluffy apology for this piece of crap. It's crap because I probably got some of the lyrics wrong...I'm doing this by ear and they have quiet voices, okay?**

**Disclaimer: CURSE YOU MOFFAT AND GATISS!**

Everything

Sherlock sighed and looked out the window with eyes that had died long ago. It was raining, and though it was mid-day, the sky looked black and sad.

Today was an off day for Sherlock. He was hiding, waiting for his next, and final victim. It was somehow always the final thing that really brings a situation home. _One more man and I'll be able to go home. Home. To John._

Sherlock tried not to dwell on these thoughts too much, as they left strange, dark, painful feelings deep in his chest.

It was too quiet. Sherlock looked around in surroundings – at his living quarters for the next few days, until he can finally set his plan into action. There was a small radio on the wooden table beside him, so he flipped it on, looking for something to interrupt the silence and distract from his thoughts.

He didn't listen to the DJ, but then a song came on – some soft guitar strumming started, just as it started to rain. He watch the drops fall down and onto the windowsill as the lyrics – just as soft as the guitar, pulled his attention.

"You sheltered me from harm: kept me warm. Kept me warm."

His thoughts wandered to John. John had, in several ways, protected Sherlock. Sometimes from criminals, sometimes from his own mind; John was always his knight in shining armor, and always would be.

"You you gave my life to me; set me free. Set me free. The finest years I ever knew were all the years I had with you."

In many ways, John _was_ his life. Sherlock realized this when he realized that he loved him. John had set his heart and soul freeze when he had come to him, and Sherlock could only pray that John had felt the same way. Sherlock was broken and half dead without John, who completed him. Sherlock realized this when he left, and he hoped with all his heart that he would never have to feel this way again.

This song reminded him of John so much, it almost scared him.

"And I would give anything I own, I'd give up my life, my heart, my home, I would give everything I own just to have you back again."

Sherlock swallowed a lump that was rapidly forming in his throat. He looked out the window again – mistake. The rain was not improving his mood.

"You taught me how to love, what it's of… What it's of."

It was true. John had _literally_ shown Sherlock what love was. And Sherlock knew, he would love John forever.

"You never said too much, but still you showed the way, and I knew, from what you knew, Nobody else could ever know the part of me they can't let go,"

Sherlock had given John everything. _Everything_. And John, and only John, knew that Sherlock loved him so deeply.

"And I would give anything I own, I give up my life, my heart, my home. And I would give everything I own just to have you back again."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his four head to the window. It was not enough to dry his eyes. He tried to stop them, but he couldn't, and the tears trickled down his cheeks and onto the windowsill, and the rain – drops outside had seeped into the room.

In the past three years, in his entire adult life really, Sherlock had cried twice. The first was when it he had gone to visit London for the first time after the fall. He had gone into a little breakfast café where John and Mrs. Hudson were drinking tea and chatting, disguised as a red – headed professor. His heart ached when he saw Mrs. Hudson. She looked healthy, like she was moving on, but still she had a few more frown lines, and a few less laughing ones, and she looked a little older and Saturday.

When he looked at John, his heart almost broke. He didn't _look_ sad, broken, he had his mask up and was very good at concealing his emotions, but he's _eyes_. They were empty and hollow. His limp was back, according to the cane that was leaning on the table, and he slumped slightly, like he had a great weight over his shoulders.

Sherlock could not stop looking at his eyes though. It was all he could do to escape to a dark alley behind the street and crouch behind a garbage bin so as not to be seen before he fell apart, silent sobs racking his body and ripping through his throat, and he was blinded by tears.

He was pulled out of his reverie by the last verse of the song, which sent a stabbing pain through his chest like a knife.

"Is there someone you know, you're loving them so, but taking them all for granted. You may lose them one day, someone takes them away, and they don't hear the words you'd love to say,"

That was it. He pulled away from the window and buried his head in his hands and let it all go as the last chorus played.

He turned off the stupid radio and glared at the window as his tears subsided, but he couldn't help but reached into his breast pocket and pull out the picture he had nicked from 221B before the fall. It was Sherlock and John, standing side-by-side. John was laughing and had his face turned into Sherlock shoulder, who is grinning like an idiot and hugging John close to him.

Present day Sherlock half–smiled at the picture with red–rimmed eyes as the last chorus ran through his head again.

"I would give anything I own: I'd give up my life, my heart, my home. I would give everything I own just to have you back again. Just to touch you once again."

**You know, I think I'll just post the fluff one tomorrow. I'm too tired. Plus, we have tomorrow off from school (YAAAY 3DAY WEEKEND!) so I'll have lots of time to write. I promise I'll get more than two chapters up this weekend!**

**Do you love it? Please let me know and review!**

**Namaarie mellon nins. (farewell my friends – Elvish)**


	14. Baking

**Hi! Soo, here is a little peace offering and an apology for yesterday's angst spasm. I was quite proud of that actually…**

**Disclaimer: * Gets down on knees and begs Moffat and Gatiss to give me ownership of Sherlock***

Baking

Sherlock had never baked anything in his life. He barely knew how to cook at all. Before John had shown up in his life, he had practically off of Nutella and free food from Angelo's.

Sherlock had explained all of this to John. So how, but he was wondering, how he had allowed John to talk him into standing in the kitchen, his experiments momentarily abandoned in the corner, bending over a counter/full/of baking ingredients in an apron.

Sherlock sighed. D.I Lestrade's birthday was coming up, and, being friends with him, John had insisted they make something nice for him.

Sherlock had protested heartily at first, but with the right persuasion, he finally caved.

He was regretting that now, now that he was shoveling flour into a measuring cup with a disdainful look on his face.

John was measuring out nutmeg into a spoon, oblivious to Sherlock's pouting. John loved baking. Before he joined the army or met Sherlock, he baked quite a lot, considering he had way too much time on his hands. Now he felt like he was living off of Nutella and free food from Angelo's. He got very few opportunities to bake anything, so he took advantage of every occasion he could. Plus he genuinely liked Greg, and wanted to do something nice.

He was starting to regret that decision now, since Sherlock had started complaining two hours ago, and hadn't shut up since.

John was officially fed up. "I mean I don't even like Greg. Why should I have to–"

Sherlock never finished his sentence. John had grabbed an egg while Sherlock was faced the other way, and lobbed it at Sherlock's head. It collided with a loud 'smack', and Sherlock lurched forward.

John's giggles seem to be swallowed up by the ominous silence that followed. Sherlock turned around slowly, the most epic 'bitch face' John had ever seen in his life on his face. John cracked up even more, but was silenced quickly as a bowl of sugar and melted butter was sloshed in his face.

He wiped the sticky mixture out of his eyes and glared at Sherlock's triumphant smirk.

Without looking away, he grabbed the carton full of milk behind him and dumped the entire thing over Sherlock's head.

Sherlock recovered so quickly, John barely had time to laugh before he was being pelted with handfuls of flour.

John yelled and reached for the egg carton. He blindly started pelting eggs in Sherlocks's general direction while white powder clouded his vision.

It didn't matter that the eggs stung and John's eyes burned, the two of them were laughing so hard, they could barely feel anything I might've hurt.

Eggs and flour and random baking ingredients were flying through the air and covering every surface when Mrs. Hudson walked in. Of course, the two of them being blind is bats from flour, milk, and eggs, they didn't see her and kept laughing and fighting.

Sherlock trapped John in a tight embrace and pulled him close, unaware of Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway. John swiped a finger across Sherlock's high, batter–coated cheek and licked his finger, still laughing quietly.

"Delicious. The dough's not bad either." Sherlock chuckled, and was about to say something, when Mrs. Hudson decided to speak up.

"Oi! What did you two do to my bloody kitchen?"

The two froze and lurched apart so fast, they tripped on all the butter coating the floor and fell flat on their faces. Well, John's face, Sherlock fell on top of him.

They looked up in shame as Mrs. Hudson glared down at them like a mother would at her misbehaving children. "Now," she said calmly, like she was trying very hard to control her temper. "You will go and clean yourselves up, and then you will get your arses back up here and clean this kitchen up, from top to bottom, and I will not be satisfied until my kitchen is sparkling!"

She stomped out, and Sherlock and John grinned at each other. "Well," Sherlock said. "I suppose we should go before mother gets angry!"

John chuckled and smacked Sherlock's shoulder. "Get off, you."

Sherlock rolled off of John and offered him a hand up. Then he fell down again and John burst into laughter again. He pulled Sherlock up and gave him a clap in the back. "Come on. Let's get cleaned up. The faster we clean the kitchen, the sooner Mrs. Hudson let us go and we can actually make something for Greg's birthday. "

"Mmm." Sherlock smiled and kissed John's cheek. "Looking forward."

**Y'all tell me what you think, k? And a HUGE thank you for all of you who have reviewed and favorited/subscribed to me thus far. I love you all and am making you cookies as we speak.**

**P.S Heathcliff….just no. I am not writing that monstrosity you suggested, but I challenge you to.**


	15. Library

**Hi! I am so sorry for not updating since Friday. I feel so guilty. But, in apology, I have new fics for you here! One is good in my opinion. The other is crappy. I'll leave it to you to decide which one it is. Just kidding, I love this one. The next one, which will be up in about an hour, is crappy. Okay, story. I write all of these during class in a little black journal called Canson, right? Yeah. So today I was writing in it while the teacher was speaking, which I'm not supposed to do, and suddenly I get a nosebleed. So I leave my journal which is open to the page that I'm writing in (it's called scarf, and I'm not actually finished with it yet) and the first paragraph on the page reads 'his boyfriend was allied against him with an inanimate object.'**

**...yeah. Let's just say my return was awkward and leave it at that, k? Ahem, onward!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but if I did, what is subtext would be canon, if you know what I mean. ;D (Johnlock)**

Library

Sometimes Sherlock got fed up with his 'normal routine'.

When he told this to John while attempting to drag him to his 'embodied mind palace', John looked at him like he was insane.

"Sherlock, I didn't know that you knew what the word 'routine' meant."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I know what it means John. There it is a routine, we have always gone through it. We get a case, we investigate, I wrap it up, and then spend the next week or two waiting for the next case."

John tilted his head and shrugged in agreement, but then crinkled his brow in confusion. "I have never seen you break this routine–"and then he remembered : often, during their one or two week waiting period, Sherlock would suddenly just walk out with no explanation. "Oh. So where do you go then?"

Sherlock grinned. "Your powers of deduction are improving, my dear." And then he grabbed John's hand and shot like a cannon out of the flat.

Sherlock pulled them to stop in front of a large library, nearly vibrating with excitement. John raised an eyebrow. "Really? I would've thought a museum, but…"

Sherlock rubs his hands together before pulling John in like an excited child. "No bee exhibit. Now come on! I want to show you my embodied mind palace!"

When they ran past the front desk, nobody really took notice, but regarded them with familiar indifference. John cringed thinking about what Sherlock normally did here.

He really didn't have time to ponder because Sherlock was pulling him through the library towards the back at an alarming pace.

"Sherlock," John hissed as Sherlock pulled him deeper and deeper into the library. "Do you even know where you are go-"

His sentence was cut off with a grunt because Sherlock, without any warning, came to an abrupt halt right in front of him.

They work in the very corner of the library, where the lights were dimmed slightly and there were several piles of books stacked precariously around on the floor.

Sherlock stepped forward and plopped down in the squashy chair that was stuffed in the corner between the last two bookshelves. "Welcome to my little corner. Have a seat! "He punctuated this by patting the little space on the chair where he had made room for him."

John move toward him, impressed. "This is very nice." He said, sitting next to his partner and grabbing a book from the closest pile it. It was about bees. The next one was about bees too. "Sherlock, these are all about bees…"

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically and leaned over John to grab the top book. "If bees don't interest you, make your own pile."

John had no interest in bees, and soon he had his own small pile of books next to his arm of the chair, crammed between it and the last bookshelf. It was full of science fiction and fantasy, and looked extremely out of place among the piles of nonfiction bee books.

When he was satisfied with the size of the pile, he grabbed the top book and enthusiastically plopped down next to Sherlock, who is engrossed in his bee book. When John sat down though, he looked up at him for a moment, shifting to where he was comfortably sitting in John's lap, his long legs dangling over the arm of the chair.

John grinned lopsidedly and squeezed Sherlock to him, savoring the feeling of him cuddling into his chest.

"I rather like you're mind palace."

Sherlock sighed happily. "It is nice isn't it? I mean now that its finished." and he shifted slightly and kissed John's nose to show him exactly what he meant.

**Next up: grocery store. Let me know what you think! Leave reviews! They are much appreciated. And I just want to say a big thank you to everybody who has reviewed and favorited me and put me on their alerts etc., I love you and you make me the happiest person on the freaking planet. Keep up the support; it gives me motivation to write. :D**


	16. Grocery Store

**And here's the second for today! Hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer:...I don't own Sherlock. But if I did, Irene Adler would be, like, married or lesbian and every girl John dates would mysteriously fall ill and die...**

Grocery Store

"What are we doing here, John?"

It wasn't really a question, John used. It was more of a demand.

John was having a bad day. His shoulder was hurting in the last case they were on involve a lot of running, so when he got home and didn't have any milk to make tea (which John absolutely /needed/), he had exploded and dragged Sherlock to go with him to the store. He regarding it as punishment for telling John to go get it himself when he/knew/John was suffering.

"We," he replied haughtily, grabbing a grocery cart and yanking it out with more force than he intended, "are getting milk, and various other food since I am rather sick of Angelos and Chinese takeaway."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Simple solution. Don't eat. Then suddenly anything becomes acceptable."

John stared at him for a few moments, then abruptly walk away, dragging his rogue cart behind him. After a moment in which Sherlock just stood there grinning after him because he knew John forgot something, John walked back sullenly and shoved a list into Sherlock's hands. "You go and find this stuff, and I know it's hard for you, trust me, I know, but try not to do anything stupid."

Sherlock glowered at John before stalking off, his black coat billowing behind his figure like a cape.

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's dramatic episode and turned to his own list, picking up this and that as he wandered about the store.

He wandered around for a while, but soon, an uneasy feeling grew in his mind. Has Sherlock ever /been/to the grocery store before? He turned around an isle to see, to his horror, that Sherlock had ripped open a package of spoons and was dipping one into an open jar of peanut butter.

John massaged his temples and sighed. Of course. He walked to him and snatched the jar and the package of spoons out of his hands and dumped them in his cart. "You cant do that, you bloody wanker."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and pulled a piece of plastic on his coat pocket. "I can actually. "And he waved D.I Lestrade's badge in John's face. John's eyes went wide and he snatched at it. Sherlock peevishly flicked his hand out of John's reach, and, giving him an impish grin, he turned on his heel and walked down the aisle with a noticeable swagger in his step. John narrowed his eyes. /Well. If he wanted to play |that| game…two could do it./

He grabbed the first thing in his hand landed on on the shelf next to him (Which happened to be an ear of corn), and pitched it at Sherlock's head. The result was hilarious. As soon as Sherlock saw it fly over his head, he yelped in surprise and kamikaze rolled under a bread stand.

John laughed and leaned back against his card turning face to face with an angry security guard. "Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you and your friend to vacate the store immediately."

**Sorry for any grammar mistakes, I don't feel like editing grammar right now…You know, after some editing, it's not that bad! I'm beginning to like it. But I still think the end leaves something to be desired. What do you think? Let me know in a review ;-)**


	17. Late

**Hi! It's Sunday, and I'm really tired, and I have nothing to say. I haven't angst think here today, I don't know why I keep writing the use. I think it's all the Reichenbach feels. I'm just going to keep torturing Sherlock with John death until he knows how John feels! At him onward. I have a fluffy one and I'll update that one later.**

**Disclaimer: just… No. I'm too tired.**

Late

John was dead, and it was all his fault. John was dead, and it was _his fault… His fault, his fault…_

He could not seem to get this mantra out of his head as he cradled John's limp body against his chest, his blood seeping into his skin, his eyes staring blankly into his.

He replayed John's last words over in his head as you look down into those blue, deep, _dead_ eyes.

_"It's not… Not your fault."_

_"It is, John. It is. I was too late and it –"_

_"Shh." John raised a shaking thumb and ran it lightly over Sherlock's cheek, wiping away his tears. Then he smiled. "I get to spend the rest of my life with you." He said with a shaky voice, tears sliding corners of his own eyes._

_Sherlock fought against the sobs that threatened to wrack his body. He had to be strong now: for John. He bent down and brushed his lips over the corners of John's eyes. "I love you." he murmured. He felt John's last breath, and then he was still._

He leaned back, and looked around, amazed. The world was still turning. Still in color. The stars were still twinkling down at him – unaware of the two hearts the world just lost.

Sherlock looks down at John's body once more, and the reality hit in like an iron clad punch. John was gone. Tomorrow she would not be there to make him tea in the morning. He would not be there to support him on cases. Do not be there to cuddle into his chest tonight and brush butterfly kisses over his neck before he went to sleep.

With the start – he realized he only ever said 'I love you' to him once.

He didn't notice when the police showed up and the medics rushed him – everything was in a slow blur. He just slumped over John's body, with barely enough energy left to cry.

**What did I just write…? Why do I feel the need to keep torturing Sherlock in this waay? BECAUSE HE ABANDONED JOHN, THAT'S WHY! I DON'T CARE IF IT WAS TO SAVE JOHN, HE LEFT FOR THREE YEAI'll shut up now, and update in about half an hour. :/**


	18. Scarf

**And now the fluffy one! Yaaaay *runs around chair; Snape style***

Scarf

John had strange mixed feelings towards Sherlock's scarf. Needless to say, it was a magnificent creation, but John was sure that it openly hated him. He felt like there was an ongoing war between him and _the scarf_. And unfortunately, Sherlock, his own partner cost with on the scarf's side

His boyfriend was allied against him with an inanimate object.

John knew that the scarf hated him, he could almost see it smirking at him when Sherlock wound it about his pearly, expansive, magnificent neck: it had nothing but contempt for John because it was touching that neck and he was not. He would never admit it out loud, and cringed just thinking it inside the confines of his head, but he wished he _was_ that scarf.

Yet sometimes he didn't hate the scarf. It was rather lovely. And one time when he and Sherlock were out on a case and it was particularly cold, Sherlock noticed him sharing in pausing seducing two with the scarf off his neck and wraparound John's. He then saw it was quite soft as well. He's rather fond of it, when he wasn't busy being jealous of it.

Even though he tried his best to be discreet, Sherlock knew of his ongoing battle with the scarf. Of course he knew.

One time he'd walked out of the kitchen and into the living room to catch John having a full blown glaring match with the scarf. John had never heard Sherlock laugh so hard in his life. He never let it go either. Every now and again, Sherlock would catch John glowering while he was winding /it/ about his glorious neck, and he would smirk, highly amused by John's imagined conflict. He never said anything about it though, for which John was eternally grateful. To him, 'not talking about his conflict with an inanimate object' was pretty much an unspoken rule between the two.

'_A now broken rule…_' John thought resignedly to himself as Sherlock asked the dreaded question on one of their off days. /He/ was apparently at ease in his comfortable spot next to John on the couch; his head leaned back against John's shoulder and his legs hanging over the arm.

"So what is this ongoing war between you and my scarf about?"

John flushed pink, but kept his cool as he pretended to write in his blog. "Let it go Sherlock, it's between me and the _abomination_. And it's not like you don't already know."

Sherlock looked out the window and chuckled before turning back to John with a fond smirk. "You can touch my neck you know, it isn't off-limits or anything."

The corners of John's mouth quirked up, and he leaned over to plant a kiss on Sherlock's exposed windpipe.

"I know." He murmured against his partner's neck, throwing a contented glance at the scarf, which looked strangely forlorn on its lonely coat stand.

Unfortunately, Sherlock caught him, and his laughter reverberated through him, creating a sweet vibrating sensation against John's grinning lips.

**I'm rather fond of Sherlock's scarf myself; I just can't imagine John feeling the same. XD.**

**Okay, Amy: I would love a beta, I'm ecstatic at the prospects, but you didn't log in, so I have no way of contacting you. So if you could pm me or leave the link to your account in a review or something ;) I'd appreciate it.**

**Like it? Hate it? Have a prompt? Let me know people! Your opinions are awesome to have! Until next time, then!**


	19. Snowball Fight

**I am a dispicable human being. I have been gone for almost a month, there is no excuse for that.(I had exams and soccer and a life...wow.) But, please forgive me, I have like 3 chapters here, and more are coming tomorrow. They are not my best work and I apologize, but it's something.**

**Disclaimer:I am WAAY too nice to be Moffat or Gatiss. Way too nice.**

Snowball Fight

It was a snowy night in late December; the last day before the new year in fact, and snow was coating the ground like a thick layer of icing over a cake.

In short, it was a beautiful New Year's Eve night, and John had forced Sherlock to go on a late walk about the city. Sherlock had ho and sulk, but nonetheless snaked his hand into John's on the way out of the flat. This meant that however much he complained, he was secretly enjoying himself.

"John seriously. We can admire the snow from the inside, and it's cold."

John rolled his eyes and squeezed Sherlock's hand lightly, trying to hide the fond grin that was tugging at his lips.

"come on Sherlock, it's New Year's Eve. Endure it for only a few hours for me, and then you can go back to your oxidized… Urine… Or something…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please John. I'm seeing how urine reacts with dirt."

John snorted. "Of course, because that makes so much sense."

"Of course it does." To his surprise, Sherlock did not launch into it and elaborate explanation. "It's for a case."

John shamelessly gazed at his boyfriend, watching the snowflakes settle his hair, on his eyelashes, on the broad shoulders of his coat. His blue eyes traveled up to meet minty green ones, sparkling with amusement.

"You're staring."

John grinned cheekily and pecked him on the lips. "I know."

Sherlock chuckled and kissed his temple, breathing in John scent. It never failed to fascinate and intoxicate him, the glorious mix of leather, tea, his own pine soap, and gun oil. It drove him to distraction. Which is why, of course, he didn't notice as John reached behind him and packed up a rather large mound of snow, and hid it behind his own back.

Sherlock pulled back and moved his arm to loosely circle John's shoulders, but he didn't get far.

Suddenly, John whipped the snowball out from behind his back and slammed in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock sputtered and stumbled backwards in shock, and John laughed.

Sherlock wiped the snow off his face to show an adorable frown pulling at the corners of his mouth down in a comical pout.

He narrowed his eyes and scooped up a lump of snow while his partner was laughing, and before he had time to sober up, Sherlock darted behind him and dumped the snow down the back of his jacket.

John yelped and lurched forward, tripped over his own feet, and landed face first on the snowy sidewalk.

Sherlock howled with laughter, but was quickly silenced when John flipped over on his back and started hurling snowballs at him.

Sherlock ducked suddenly, and to John's horror, a snowball sailed over his head and hit somebody in the back.

John jumped up to apologize, but before he could, Sherlock grabbed him and turned him around, walking away casually like nothing happened.

A snowball still hit him in the back… He didn't mind though.

John looked at his watch. "It's 11:59."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're not actually counting down, are you?"

John ignored him. And the clock struck 12, and he leaned up and captured Sherlock in a kiss. He pulled back just enough to murder against his lips;

"Happy new year, Sherlock."

**D'aw, I like this chapter, its so cute. :D do you like it? Yes, you. Lemme know! Reviews and prompts are always appreciated! And to the lovely people who sent me prompts, don't worry, i'm working on 'em.**


	20. Meeting Sherlock's Mummy

**Número dos para hoy! No me gusta este, esta muy crappido. ****See what I' did there? Didja? :D ugh, my Spanish sucks, sorry.**

**Number two for today! I don't like this, it's very crappy, and I ran out of ideas at the end. :P I hope you enjoy it anyway though!**

**Disclaimer:4...days...'til season 2! Friggin' Moffat, i am terrified of The Reichenbach Fall!**

Meeting Sherlock's Mummy

The one thing that John had ever dreaded it about dating Sherlock was his family.

John was terrified of Sherlock's parents. He had never met them, but if they were anything like Sherlock or Mycroft… John shuddered at the thought of the ones who had raised those two.

So when Sherlock's mother called (called Mycroft so he could convey the message) to say that she wanted John to spend Christmas dinner at the Holmes Manor, John freaked out. He had avoided her last Christmas with the excuse of spending it with his sister. This was before he and Sherlock… Stopped denying that they were a couple.

Now, he had no excuses, and since it was considered proper, (and Sherlock was forcing him out the door) he had to face the fact. He was going to meet Sherlock's mother. And have Christmas dinner with her and Mycroft and Sherlock. He grimaced at the thought, bracing himself for the hours of awkward silence and sibling rivalry to come.

Sherlock slid into the cab next to him and put his arm around his waist, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Stop being so tense, mummy doesn't bite."

John sighed. He would ask how Sherlock knew what he was thinking, but he what he would say. 'Your thoughts are so loud, John. Honestly, try to keep it down.'

He smiled, and relaxed, leaning into Sherlocks side.

The Holmes Manor was in the country, about an hour away from London, so John had plenty of time to mentally regroup before it was time to enter the battlefield. All of this was shattered however, when Mycroft pulled up beside their cab and a black limo. He smiled tensely (it looked more like a pained grimace) as Sherlock and John stepped out of their cab.

Well, Sherlock stepped out, John tripped on Sherlocks excessively long coat, and fell on his face, making the whole situation that much more awkward.

Meaning awkward for him. Sherlock looked like he was going to wet himself from the effort it took not to laugh as he pulled John up. One glance at Mycroft told him the same story.

"Hello brother, John. Glad I could witness you're… Interesting arrival." Said Mycroft, his eyes gleaming mischievously.

John painted on a sarcastic grin to show him exactly how funny he thought it was.

"Hello Mycroft." Said Sherlock, coming to John's rescue. "Jenny Craig isn't working for you. Getting desperate, are we?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You're adolescent remarks about my weight have lost their effect and grown old a long time ago brother. Abandon them."

It was now John's turn to roll his eyes at their rapidly forming glare fest and he sighed. "Boys, please."

Before John was forced to break up a full-blown brawl, they were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. John looked over and, to his horror, he saw an old woman walking towards them.

Mrs. Holmes was a tall woman, with a straight back and high shoulders. Her posture demanded respect, but her eyes were gentle.

She approached her children first, greeting them and turn with a hug and a bond kiss on the cheek. John was rather surprised when she turned around and embraced him as well.

"Now you must be John! The handsome soldier I've heard so much about!"

John blushed slightly and glanced at Sherlock, who was also pink, and determinedly not meeting his eyes. "Yes," he said politely. "I'm John."

Mrs. Holmes patted his shoulder before turning 'round around towards the house. Sherlock and John followed in her wake, bickering all the while.

John smiled and took Sherlocks hand. He wasn't scared anymore.

**Meh. :P review?**


	21. Eskimo Kisses

**THREEEEE! This here is my favorite. I love this. IT'S SO FLUFFY!**

**Disclaimer:WHY IS THERE NO JOHNLOCK? Even though it's like so high on the subtext shipping list, it's amazing. Along with the gazillion other ships on this show...I swear. It's enough to battle the amazing number of Ships in Harry Potter. I'll make a list later. May e on the next author note...**

Eskimo Kisses

"Well, that was fun." Sherlock exclaimed happily to John. They were walking away from a rather exciting triple murder, and Sherlock was rather chuffed. It was time to wind down, switch gears from consulting detective mode to charming (well, charming as relatively speaking) boyfriend mode, and then into annoying roommate mode again.

He looked over at his partner and noticed he still had a hand clamped over his mouth.

They had been in a fight before Sherlock had wrapped up the case, allow the rough fight in which guns and sticks and hard objects had been whipped around once the bullets had all been fired (in vain, thank goodness). Sherlock himself had suffered a pistol whip to the face, and could quickly feel a black eye forming.

He had not yet had the chance to assess the damage done to John, so now his brow creased in concern. "John, what…" John wiped his hand on his shirt, now crimson, and spat blood.

"'M alright. Split lip is all." John's speech was slightly slurred and thick with blood, which meant one hell of a split lip. Stitches most likely required.

"You should get that stitched up. It's awful." Said sherlock, so casually, he might as well have been remarking on the weather.

John rolled his eyes. "I'm a doctor, Sherlock, I can do it myself." John was clearly headed towards Baker Street, but Sherlock was having none of that. He grabbed John by the shoulders and maneuvered him towards St. Barts hospital, not listening to a word of his protests.

John felt his lip again gingerly as he entered the flat after he got his mouth stitched together. He had needed three stitches.

Sherlock had not stayed it. In the waiting room, Sherlock I got an restless and bored, and John could tell something was on his mind, so he had sent him home.

Now he saw him curled up in his favorite arm chair like a cat, with John's laptop between his long torso and his knees. He looked up and grinned briefly done before going back to what he was doing, and John crossed through to the kitchen to make some tea. He could definitely do with some.

He put on the kettle, and felt too long arms snake around his torso to settle on his stomach, and Sherlock pressed his angular cheekbones into John's shoulder blade. He sighed and started to relax as Sherlocks breath warmed his neck.

"Love you." Sherlock rumbled, his deep baritone voice sending light shivers down John's spine.

"Love you too." John slurred as best as he could around the world in his mouth.

He turned around and hug Sherlock to him. Sherlock leaned in to kiss him and John leaned back. "Sherlock, my lip–" but he paused in surprise. Sherlock did not go for his battered lips, but instead gently pressed in his nose to the side of John's; as sweet and intimate as any kiss. He never broke eye contact with his blogger as he nudged a little closer, and John could just barely feel the lightest brush of Sherlock's lips against his.

"Sherlock…" He questioned lightly, a lopsided grin lighting up his face. "Are you Eskimo kissing me?"

Sherlock Holmes. I did a little research, and this seems to be working just fine."

**AAAAW! This is my favorite, by far. It's so cute. :) But I say 'smiled' and 'grin' too much. I need to stop that.**

**And on that note, I take my farewell. Bye! And don't forget to review! Prompts are always loved! Love you all!**

**The End...?**

**dun DUN dun DUN!**

**Doo doobeedoo doobeedoo doobeedoo doobeedoo doobeedoo doobeedooooo (DUN dun DUN)**


	22. Nightmares

Nightmares

**hey, guys! I'm alive! I'm so so terribly sorry I havent updated til now, but I was just on vacation, and before that, exams, so I was pretty busy. But I'm back now, and I have like four, five chapters to give to you! So I am garunteeing one chapter a day for at least four days until I get some more down. I've been going through the comments and reading the reviews and prompts, and y'all are really helping me out with that, I appreciate it. And without further ado, your chapter!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I owned Sherlock, The bloody Reichenbach Fall would just be one of John's nightmares.**

John yawned and stood up. It was 1 o'clock in the morning, long after their last case had wrapped up, and there were no more excuses to stay awake.

Not for him anyway. Sherlock himself was happily working away on a new experiment.

"I'm off to bed. You coming anytime soon?"

Sherlock adjusted the slide under his microscope and jotted something down in his notebook. "Probably not."

John just nodded and climb the stairs to his bedroom. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't hear if he said good night. He most likely not notice he was gone at all. John didn't mind though. He understood how the eccentric detectives mind works, and to be honest, he loved it rolling with it.

Sherlock glanced up briefly is John's door clicked shut. There's no case to focus on, sometimes like this, he allowed his mind to wander to other things. Things like John.

He stretched lazily. Maybe he would go to bed. But then he glanced at his microscope, and went back to his experiment. Bed could wait.

About an hour or two later, when Sherlock was just beginning to see a reaction from the skin sample he was studying, a bloodcurdling scream echoed down from John's room.

Sherlock leapt up and dropped his clamp. He ripped his goggles off as another scream reached his ears, and he sprinted up the stairs to John's room.

The ex-soldier was thrashing about violently, his legs tangled up in the bed sheets and screaming.

Sherlock sprinted to his side, gently but firmly grabbed his shoulder, and shook him lightly. "John." He repeated his name as the man on the bed slowly woke up and stopped thrashing.

John sat up and blinked at him, and Sherlock brushed his sweaty bangs out of his eyes with his thumbs, trying to soothe his friend.

John took one deep breath, and then another, and shut his eyes. Sherlock kept applying his calming ministrations, for they really seem to be helping.

Then John's breath hitched, and he leaned into Sherlock's embrace. He pulled him close by the sleeves of his shirt and buried his face in Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock climbed up onto the bed and wrapped his arms around John shoulders, silently assuring him that everything was alright.

Once John had calmed down, he maneuvered them into more comfortable and permanent position. Experiment be damned, his blogger needed him.

"Tell me about it." he murmured.

John sighed, and Sherlock could feel it from where John had laid his head on his stomach. "It was Afghanistan again. Only this time was different. It was me and my squad, but –" at this, his arms tightened around Sherlock's waist. "But you were there. You were with me and my squad, and we were shooting at the enemy from a foxhole. We were overpowered, and –"

He took a deep, shuddery breath. "You got shot, Sherlock. You got yourself a bloody chest wound, and you were bleeding out, and they were dragging me away, and I couldn't help you, and had to watch you," he swallowed hard. "die." His voice broke on the last word, and Sherlock felt John shake.

"It was so _vivid_, Sherlock. So _real_. It was so hot, and I could almost feel the sand blowing in my eyes."

Sherlock just held him tighter, squeezing John to him and reassurance. "We're alright John. See?" He took John's hand, and dragged it up his torso to settle over his heart. It was blessedly warm and dry, and his heart was beating steadily. John sighed in relief and nodded, not moving his hand from where it rested over Sherlock's heart.

After a while, John drifted off into peaceful sleep. With Sherlock - his own heart - by his side, his mind was at peace.

**special thanks to charlieimmemorial for giving me this lovely prompt. Keep it up guys, I'm counting on you!**


	23. Molly Hooper

**Alright, last one and then I have to write again. Oh no…**

**Well, I'll try my best, and with great prompts come great stories. *wink wink***

**Well, here we go.**

**Disclaimer:Poor Molly. If I owned Sherlock, she and Lestrade would be happily married.**

Molly Hooper

Molly was having an excellent day. Everything was great, turning out in her favor, and by the end of it, around 5:45 to be exact, she was rather chuffed and giddy.

That morning after the daily karate workout, in which finally, after months and years of training she got her black belt, she don't work practically vibrating with confidence. Apparently it had rubbed off, because all of her colleagues had been nice to her. Not that they usually weren't, but today, to her, everything seemed a bit brighter.

She was so confident, that after she clocked out from the morgue, she decided to go and visit Sherlock, who was down in the lab. (She had watched him and his partner go down there earlier.)

She didn't even hesitate as she pranced lightly down the concrete stairs and walked down the hall. On any normal day, she would've turned around and gone back a few times before plucking up the courage to approach the door. She paused just outside it now, straightening her ponytail (she always parted it to the side now, definitely not because of Sherlock), and straightened out any wrinkles in her lab coat.

From the other side of the door, she heard the hiss of a sharp intake of breath, and John's voice carried to where she was standing.

"Ouch! Sherlock, that hurt."

She then heard said man's deep baritone reply "well it would have less if you'd stop moving. Come John, you're a medical man. Plus, shouldn't you be used to this by now?"

John's answering tons sounded strained, like he was great gritting his teething pain. "No Sherlock, usually I'm the one doing the administering. As you said I'm a medical man."

Molly's jaw dropped and her eyes went very wide. This couldn't – what were they -

Without thinking, she turned the handle and opened it slowly, fearing the worst. And for moment she thought it was true, and gasped.

John was bending over a lab table shirtless, bracing himself with his elbows and squeezing his eyes closed, with Sherlock standing close behind him.

Then her eyes adjusted, and she took in the rest of the picture. Sherlock, the utter picture of calm and decent, was injecting a large needle into the shoulder of the shorter man, who was drumming his fingers on the table and taking controlled, even breaths.

At Molly's little gasp, Sherlock glanced up and flashed her a fleeting grin before turning back to his work. "Hello Molly, how are you today?"

Molly blinked. Did that just happen? Did Sherlock really just greet her and ask her how she was? She shook herself slightly and reminded herself to respond. "I'm fine! Great really! How are you?" She glanced at John, who smiled grimly her. "Hello John!" she added. He nodded politely.

"Evening Molly." But then groaned loudly as Sherlock ejected the giant needle.

Molly winced in sympathy as Sherlock spewed his own reply. She wasn't really listening though. She was still too shocked from earlier, and she suddenly caught a glimpse of Sherlock's other hand holding his test subject steady at his hip, and looking way too comfortable there. Molly didn't even bother acknowledging Sherlock's words, she just walked out.

'I am not dealing with this right now.' She thought, pulling her mobile out of her pocket to phone her sensei.

**I'm a little ashamed. This came spewing out of my brain during exams, I was that bored. If you don't want to see anything like this ever again, I wouldn't blame you, please review, and leave the prompt, there's a good fellow. :D until next time!**

**Ta!**


	24. Dressing Room

**Alright. I am denying myself food until I get this done. I can do it...aw forget it. I'm gonna get some lipunch. Be right back...***

**Disclaimer:if I owned Sherlock, do you think Irene Adler or Mary Morstan would exist? I think not!**

Dressing Room

"John," Sherlock whined as his partner handed him yet another shirt to try on. "How long have we been doing this? I hate shopping!"

John rolled his eyes inch shoved his annoying friend back into the dressing room. "You hate everything that isn't crime, related somehow to crime, bees, or me."

Sherlock scoffed. "Bit self-confident, are we?"

"Nope," John answered without missing a beat. "I just know it's true."

Sherlock grunted, but didn't complain anymore. It had been at least a year since you went close shopping. This was fine with him, since he hadn't _needed_ any new clothes.

According to John however, they were too small. All of them. Sherlock disagreed, saying that adults didn't grow and he certainly was not getting any wider, he barely even ate.

John, not having any of it, dragged into the closest department store anyway, and this was the 14th shirt he'd been forced to wear.

He groaned again and threw the shirt against the wall, watching it slide to the floor. "John, don't I have enough? I don't want to try on another bloody shirt!"

"Don't make me come in there!" John threatened, and Sherlock didn't dare test his credibility. He knew John would do it.

He shoved his arms through the sleeves of the stupid shirt and sighed, resignedly continuing the last hours routine. "There, I put the wretched shirt on."

"Good." John replied – again. "Let me see it."

Sherlock exited the small space and stood before John, albeit sulkily, but at least he did it. "Here, why don't I tell you my size and go home and /you/ could pick out my clothes. you seem to be enjoying it enough."

John circled Sherlock, almost ignoring him except for a murmured "It doesn't work that way."

He came back around front where Sherlock could see his appreciative grin. He narrowed his eyes. "You're not just looking at the shirts." It was not a question.

John laughed and shook his head. "I'm not even sorry."

Sherlock blinked. "You're not denying it either."

John flashed him a wry green. "No point to it!"

Sherlock huffed and put his hands on his hips. "I should've known you had an ulterior motive! That's it, I'm going home."

He moved to walk past John and to the door, but his partner caught him 'round the torso and turned him around, giving him a light push back toward the dressing room. "Oh no you don't. First off, that's not yours." He said, plucking the black shirt that Sherlock was currently wearing. "And secondly, you still need some new trousers."

Sherlock groaned and started back into his confinement cell, but not before yelping and jumping when John lightly smacked his arse on the way by. He glared at him, but John just laughed heartily and shut the door behind him.

**So that one's finished! Special thank you to Karley, my lovely slash buddy for this wonderful prompt. :) I don't know how I would have made it through fourth period without you.**


	25. Elevator

Elevator

**UUUUGH...I literally JUST got home from the gym, and I'm exhausted, so be happy that I'm taking time to copy this down from my journal, instead of showering and taking a nap...be proud of me guys... by the way I know nothing of the mechanics of elevators, like at all, so I'm just making stuff up.**

**Disclaimer:...I don't feel like doing a disclaimer right now. Too painful. Please don't sue me.**

Sherlock and John raced into the building after the criminal they were pursuing, Lestrade and his team just behind them.

The fugitive turned a corner, and the pair of detectives followed just in time to see him fly up the stairs.

"Lestrade, take the stairs," Sherlock hissed. "John and I will head him off." And with that, he grabbed John sleeve and pulled him into an elevator.

They waited in silence as the classical music played, and John gritted teeth. Sherlock looked at him and competing firms and send tenseness and I'm just mumbled "motion sickness. Only happens on elevations."

Sherlock should his head. "We'll be off soon."

Just as he said this, the elevator jolted to an abrupt stop and the lights flickered off. John gave Sherlock a look, saying sarcastically "point proven."

Sherlock pay no attention but looked around in disbelief, shaking his head. "No, no, no! This is isn't- but – the – nyaaa!" he broke off and started pacing. He jumped up and stuck his face in the security camera. "I hope you fix this before it's too late or I will /skin/ you!"

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock get down before it starts up again and you hurt yourself!"

Sherlock sulkily hopped off the side railing and sat on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. "We are going to miss him!" He wine as John went over to sit beside him. John folded his arms and crossed his ankles, much more relaxed than his partner.

"Oh, Lestrade isn't that stupid, he'll get him."

Sherlock left up and started pacing again, growing agitated at the possibility of being beaten again.

John sighed. "Don't work yourself up Sherlock, there's nothing we can do right now."

Sherlock started tinkering with the walls. "Not true, there's always something that can be done, I've studied mechanics precisely for situations like this, I can work –" he paused to punch a specific spot in the wall. "Something out."

He tried to hit the wall between panels again, but John had sprung up and grabbed his fist. "Stop it, stop it! This isn't helping. Think. Calm down and think. The control panels aren't even in here, there's a special room for that. And this is a posh place run by posh people who think that they're so good that nothing could go wrong. There is nothing we can do here."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped further and further as John spoke, and he sat down again, followed by John in their positions before.

He sat for a few moments, and turned to John, a grin spreading over space. "Your deduction skills are improving, John. I've done a fine job in my teachings."

John rolled his eyes, the grand at the lopsided comment. He held out his hand. "Give me your wrist."

Sherlock, confused, held out his hand and blinked in surprise. It was red and bleeding, Sherlock realized that he had punched the metal wall in his haste to escape.

John took his long hand gently in his own callused ones, taking great care of his bruised knuckles. He rubbed his thumb over them lightly, barely pressing down, but just enough so we could feel it.

Sherlock groaned in pleasure and leaned his head back against the wall. "I love your hands." He said.

John laughed. "So I've heard. Several times. I swear Sherlock, you compliment my hands more than I compliment your deductions."

It's true! There calloused and strong, but _so_ gentle. A surgeon's hands. Fascinating."

John blushed slightly, but it wasn't noticeable in the dark elevator. But Sherlock knew, for his long fingers had snaked their way around his wrist, and down to his pulse point.

**special thanks to Xx8BlueMoon8xX for her wonderful prompt. I had a lot of fun deciding what to do with that. :D**

**Keep it up guys, I appreciate it.**


	26. Holding Cell Honeymoon

**Holy crap…It's been a year…A YEEEEAAARR!1! Well I am alive and kicking apparently…I have updated again, and will likely be updating more frequently because I want to get my writing skills back under control…Anyway I'm so sorry it took this long, here have a ficlet.**

** And see? This is what happens when I get prompts too! Chapters! :D If you don't want to submit prompts via comment you can also go to my Tumblr; my url is the same here and there. :)**

Holding Cell Honeymoon

"I cannot believe this."

"John-"

"No. I simply cannot believe you have landed us here, in a holding cell, in New York, in the middle of the night."

"It's technically not all my fault John, the man had a gun and obviously he was going to murder his date, didn't you see his-"

"WE'RE ON OUR HONEYMOON, SHERLOCK!" John stood up and whirled around to glare at his husband with murder in his eyes.

Sherlock looked him up and down, he honestly looked like crap. His blonde hair was disheveled, there was dirt on his face, his suit was a wreck, and he had one shoe missing.  
>"Can't you turn off you're detective mode for even a little bit? Honestly we got married three bloody days ago." He kicked the stool and grimaced, pacing out his angry energy.<p>

Sherlock looked down, brown curls hiding his face. "You know that I cannot."

John threw his hands up in the air and laughed a little hysterically. "I know. I know you can't. I knew you couldn't and I agreed to marry you anyway. Why should I expect any different…"

Sherlock flinched and looked up sharply. "Are you regretting marrying me already?" 

John turned to give him a stare that would curdle milk. They stood there glaring at each other for what seemed like ages to them both, before John broke and sighed, sitting next to Sherlock again. "No. I'm not-I would never regret marrying you. I love you."

The tension in Sherlock's shoulders relaxed visibly, and John shook his head. "I just wish we could have a moment to ourselves; no crime, no cases, just you and me having a good time." 

Sherlock frowned. "But we do have good times. Don't you remember the wedding was perfectly normal, and last month we went bowling with Lestrade, and then the christmas party of-"

"We don't talk about that."

"Right."

They were silent for a moment, before John sighed and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "You're right, we do have fun. We're fine, I just; it's our honeymoon and we're in prison."

He gave another nervous laugh, and Sherlock at least had the decency to look abashed. "I'm sorry, John."

John looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, before leaning down and brushing a kiss to his curly head. "I know. You did what you thought was right, and I'm sorry for overreacting. You're alright."

Sherlock sighed and smiled happily. They were in a holding cell on their honeymoon, in a country far from home, but they were together, and that's what mattered to them. They were just fine.

**A special thank you to Tumblr User OftheWibblyWobblyTimeyWimeyStuff for the lovely prompt. I know I kinda screwed it up but oh well, I hope you like it anyway.**


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